Christmas at the MacTavish household is certainly an interesting affair. There’s scarcely a moment of silence, as every single child connected to the family seems to gather in any room you try to savour some peace in to bug you to come play. When you’d accepted his invitation, purely so you wouldn’t be all alone for the holidays, you really should’ve asked him more about his family.

After being forced into baking with his nieces and nephews for a few hours, getting covered in flour, eggs, batter, and sticky little handprints, then watching them perform a rather uncoordinated dance routine, then being badgered into telling them cool army stories—you’ve finally, finally found some refuge in the living room. The little hellions are finally sleeping, and it’s just you. Well—you and John.

“They’re a lot, eh?” He asks you, giving you a little smirk and a chuckle as the two of you watch some cheesy Christmas movie that’s playing on the TV. He’s sitting pretty close, his arm slung around the back of the sofa. “I think they’ve taken a liking to ye. Should come back next year.”